The Wailing Woman

46. Tombstones & Unwanted Eyes

We walked together in silence for a couple of minutes before I felt the first nip of the cold wind on my cheek. Then, I began to tell her the story of a little girl who should've died. Each word I spoke must have clung to my feet as each step I took felt heavier. Dilara listened like she said she would, with sincerity and kindness. She was patient when the words couldn't come out, she remained quiet but I could feel her burning gaze. Horrified. Pitiful. Sadden. Angry.

Once we reached the flower shop, I picked up three bouquets of white lilies and a singular red rose for my grandmother, Refugio.

God, I miss her so much. I wish she was here with me right now telling me one of her stories about Mexico. Anything that could remind me of home, anything that could make me believe one day I would be happy. I imagine her often talking about the tallest pomegranate tree she grew, eating with her, gardening with her, and above all, her stories about the moon. She had always admired the moon, she hoped I would too. Busca la luna y te encuentras. (Look for the moon and you will find yourself.)

But it's all ruined. The happiest memories I have of her are tainted by grief.

After paying for the flowers, my next destination was one I never wanted to go to. I slow my steps as if it helped with the uneasiness filling up in my stomach. The moment I stepped into the cemetery, my seven-year-old self appeared next to me. Although I haven't been here it seems like my heart knew how to guide my feet to the direction of where it was buried.

All three of us walked together, dragging ourselves along the pavement.

I could hear the dead, their lost souls, their murmurs. "Is that The Crier? Is The Capturer nearby?"

"She looks like she is visiting someone."

"Ah, so, she has also suffered a loss."

"The Capturer shows no mercy toward her either."

"Bless her heart."

My steps come to a halt when my eye captures an engraved name. In the memory of Caitlin McGrath, a loving mother, wife, and friend. Born March, 12,1977. Died on September 20, 2007. I walked toward the grave and kneeled. I stretched my hand out, "Máthair." I rasped out. She didn't answer back, 'Mo stór.' My fingers ached to crumble the tombstone, to disintegrate it because my mother couldn't be dead. She couldn't. I placed one of the bouquets on her grave.

My eyes skipped to the next tombstone, a bit smaller than my mother's. Here lies a Sweet Angel, Matias McGrath. Born September 6, 2007. Died on September 20, 2007. My fingers trace his name, solidifying his presence in my heart and mind. I remember the first time I held him in my arms. I didn't know him but I knew I loved him more than anything in this world.

Without looking up at Dilara, I said as I tried to maintain an even voice. "My br—My brother would've been fifteen years old if he was here with me." I hear someone sniffling but I do not know if it's Dilara or the dead that seemed to gather around. They're watching me intently, but I do not care.

I move on to the next grave and see her name. En nuestra memoria, Ana Maria Del Refugio Vargas. Born August 16, 1948. Died on December 19, 2018. I bring the rose out, and my poltergeist looks at it and says, "Soy una mujer que simplemente se enamoró de una rosa." I place it on patchy ground. (I am a woman who simply fell in love with a rose.)

"Abuelita," I whispered. "Perdóname por llegar tarde." (Grandma, forgive me for being late.)

One of the most important lessons Refugio taught me was remembrance and the dead were never meant to be forgotten. Every year when we celebrated Dia de los Muertos, she would always make sure I took part in it. As I believed that I only lost one person, my mother's portrait sat in the middle of the altar surrounded by dozens of candles. No solo debes recordarlos hoy sino por el resto de tu vida. Es la única forma que ellos pueden seguir viviendo. (You should not only remember them today but for the rest of your life. It is the only way they can continue to live.)